


Recipe For Disaster

by Bluebird of Grumpiness (GrumpyBluebird)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bathing/Washing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, no actual infidelity of any kind, suspicion of pale infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 13:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13928190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpyBluebird/pseuds/Bluebird%20of%20Grumpiness
Summary: (serves 3)Karkat comes home to find his moirail holding someone else's hand.Unrepentant diamond porn (contains no actual porn, just a metric ton of emotional intimacy and graphic cuddling.)





	Recipe For Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank the kink meme for giving me this opportunity to create the overwrought diamond porno I never knew I always wanted to write.
> 
> Content: Not actually porn. Misunderstandings, suspicion of pale infidelity (no actual infidelity of any kind).

Be Karkat ==>

Your bloodpusher feels light when you come hive, buoyed by a day of shouting at people until they listened for once. There's also an amazing smell wafting out of the meal block, which means that Gamzee has been baking again. You salivate like troll Pavlov's fucking barkbeast, and it's a disgrace how you've let yourself go since Gamzee moved in, all soft and domesticated, but you can't even bring yourself to care. You're deliriously content with your life.

The spring in your step vaporizes the moment you set foot in the meal block, because Gamzee isn't alone in there. Jane Crocker has stopped by to visit, which isn't unusual and would normally be cause for nothing worse than mild irritation, but she's–

She's... holding your moirail's hand.

Not only is she holding Gamzee's hand, she's gazing at his dumb clown face with an expression of tender concern. There's a suspiciously wet, lavender sheen to Gamzee's eyes, like he's on the verge of tears.

“–sure you're OK? Maybe you should sit down while I make you a nice, soothing cup of tea,” The Jane human is saying. The soft, clawless hand that isn't twined together with one of Gamzee's oversized paws has the audacity to pap your moirail on the shoulder. The word 'soothing' runs dizzying circles around your pan like an excitable barkbeast around a lawn ring.

“What the fuck is this?!” You ask like a reasonable person, and definitely don't bellow like a shit-flipping behemoth about to rampage through the meal block on tree trunk limbs of fury. You also don't stamp your foot like a tantrum-throwing pupa, because your innate dignity prevents you from doing anything so ridiculous.

Jane and your moirail both jump at the sudden interruption of their moment. At first Gamzee looks as unabashedly thrilled by your arrival as he always does; less so as he takes in your expression. Jane just looks startled, blue eyes wide behind her glasses. You're 90% sure that this is all some zany, sitcom-style misunderstanding, but there is someone who isn't you getting much too touchy-feely with your moirail, and you can't seem to calm down.

You can see the realization dawning on Gamzee's face of just what exactly this looks like, and your moirail jerks away from Jane's treacherously conciliating gripnubs in a flash. He scoots away from her, hands raised in a 'whoa, stop' gesture, so eager to escape that he actually scrambles backwards onto a kitchen chair, perching there like a delicate goddamn lady who's spotted a squeakbeast and needs some dashing hero to come and chase it off with a broom. It's an analogy made even more apt by the fact that Jane just about reaches Gamzee's collarbone in heeled shoes. By all rights the scene should be hilarious, but you need her out of your meal block, away from your moirail approximately five minutes ago.

“Karkat, I swear, this ain't what it looks,” Gamzee placates. You even believe him, but your ugly, jealous tendencies have been rudely roused from hibernation, and it's going to take more than words to coax the beast back down into its den.

“Would anyone care to explain to me what the shouting and drama is all about?” Jane asks. Her arms are crossed over her rumblespheres in a defensive posture, frowning more with her eyebrows than her lips, which are pressed thinly together.

You open your mouth to tell her to get out, but what emerges is an embarrassingly crab-like scree, which just gets louder and angrier the more mortified by it you become.

“Jane, I had a wicked good time making pie with you, but I think maybe you should go, and I'll catch you up some other time,” Gamzee says, eyes flicking back and forth between you and the interloper.

“I... Maybe that would be best,” She says, and thank gog, maybe you can get out of this without bloodshed, or humiliating yourself more than you already have.

Then she adds, “Are you sure you'll be all right?” with a dubious glance your way, and that is _it_. How dare she imply that you would hurt him? What kind of troll does she think you are? You're going to tear her smug, hornless head off. She's God Tier, it'll grow back!

“Sweet as this friendly concern you have going at me is, I think you need to worry about your own self right now and skedaddle,” Says Gamzee, jumping down from the chair and insinuating his annoyingly tall, solid body between the two of you. It's probably the only thing that keeps you from charging her, which you're sure was the intent.

“If you're sure, I'll just let myself out,” She says.

Gamzee keeps up his impression of a brick wall until after you hear the back door close (you would have slammed it, but Jane closes it with a polite 'snickt' sound that makes you feel worse than you already do). Then he turns around, hands raised to pap your no doubt furiously red face, but you grab his fronds before they can reach their intended destination.

You want out of the meal block, you need to clear your head somewhere that only smells like you and him, not baking or blue-eyed homewreckers. One of Gamzee's hands is weirdly sticky-wet in yours, but you don't stop to question it, just dig in your heels and drag him to your respite block.

He stumbles along meekly after you. He's twice your size, so you know he's choosing to indulge your behavior, because you wouldn't be able to budge him if he didn't let you.

He almost always lets you.

Once you've dragged him over to your pile, the one blessedly free of honk-horns, unlike the huge, migraine-inducing mountain that Gamzee maintains in the rumpus block, you dart back to close the door behind you.

Now you're ready to talk about feelings, and probably apologize, like a fucking adult. You–

You start by headbutting your moirail in the sternum, so he goes toppling back into the pile with a gentle 'oof', you clinging to him the whole way down. Then you sort of aggressively nuzzle him for a bit, because fuck adulting, he's yours. Yours and no one else's.

He squirms a little, but not to get away, just to get comfortable. His arms close gently around you, weighing you down, keeping your thoughts from spinning off into bullshit hypothetical futures that don't have him in it. He's right here. You can feel more than hear the slow beat of his pusher against the side of your face, and the hesitant vibration that you want to coax into a full-out purr. He puts a hand to your cheek, and it's so nice, but also sticky, which is distracting. Why is his hand sticky?

“Oh shit, sorry best friend, here I am painting all up on your face by accident,” Gamzee says, abashed, and you prop yourself up a little bit to get a better look at him, which is when you realize that there's a huge fuckoff puddle of blood staining your moirail's palm, tacky, half-dried rivulets all down his wrist. Every precious drop of calm you've managed to collect evaporates.

“Oh my fucking god, why didn't you tell me you were hurt? Why didn't I notice? What kind of diseased sack of bulges doesn't notice his moirail gushing vital fluids like some kind of–”

“Shhhoosh, don't get all worked up again,” He says, and paps you with his non-bloody hand, like that will help. You are having none of it, you're going to get the first aid kit, and then you're going to wrap your idiot palemate in cotton wool until he's as well-swaddled as a freshly cocooned wiggler.

You don't get far, because Gamzee rolls you both over on the pile and lays on top of you like a lukewarm sack of cement. It's not really suffocating, you can breathe just fine, but you're not going anywhere unless you want to put up the kind of fight that would damage one or both of you.

You don't want that. You stay still.

“Karkat, I need you to listen at me and not get all ahead of what I'm saying: I'm fine. I'm not hurt. I got careless in the meal block earlier, laughing at one of Jane's jokes, and cut myself good, but Jane patched me motherfucking thorough. That's why she was all up in my personal bubble when you walked in, she just put my exoskeletals back together with her Life-y thing, and wanted to make sure I wasn't dizzy or nothing after pumping my blood out on the meal preparatory surfaces. That's all.”

And there it is, just like you thought, a dumb misunderstanding. You should feel better, so why are your eyes stinging?

“Karkat? You... wanna say anything at me?”

You do, but you're afraid that if you open your disgusting maw you'll start crying for absolutely no reason.

“... I'm not crushing your squawk-bellows, am I? Let me just–” He starts to push up off of you, but that's not what you want, so you stick to him like a barnacle. You are the neediest, clingiest sack of shit, it's you.

It's hard to feel humiliated about that with your moirail inexorably pressing you down into the pile, though. He's usually more delicate with you, which is charming in its own way, but this is just what you need right now. It feels completely safe, this warm, intense pressure. It's so easy to focus on the lulling rhythm of his breath, the gentle expansion of his well-padded ribcage; easy to start breathing in sync.

Your moirail is fine, he's right here, with you, strong and tangible. You're not going to fall to pieces or fly off the handle and do something crazy, because he won't let you. He's keeping every bit of you safe and pressed properly together. You find yourself purring, which starts him going after a minute, and your whole world becomes cozy warmth and vibration.

You feel like you could stay that way forever, but the image of purple blood on your moirail's hand, and the feel of it crusting your cheek where he papped you are incentive to shepherd Gamzee into the ablution block before one or both of you doze off. Under the lassitude from piling, your body feels achy and fragile, an aftereffect of your stressed out feelsplosion. A hot shower will do you good.

You help him out of his flour-dusted t-shirt, and he leans on you in an unhelpful manner while you peel off your own shirt and drop it on the floor, but you can't honestly say that you mind. You get the water running, then shimmy out of your pants. At one point you were embarrassed to be seen naked by your moirail, but you've lived together long enough now that the shared nudity feels comfortable.

You like your showers hot, and so does Gamzee, but he can't handle the same scalding temperatures that you can. You climb into the trap first, making sure that the water feels just right before you beckon him in after you.

The hot spray feels every bit as good as you predicted it would, even better with your moirail's arms around you, and his nose snuffling at your hair. He rubs his hands along your sides, delicate over the half-formed, barely functional gills between your ribs. He'd called them a miracle the first time he saw them, and at first you thought that was a particularly nice way of calling you a freak, but then he'd shown a remarkably similar set nestled between his own ribs. You dip toes in the seadweller part of the spectrum from opposite ends, it really does seem miraculous. Serendipitous, even.

You grab a bottle of shampoo before you can wax any more maudlin over gross anatomy, and start washing your hair roughly. It takes barely a second for Gamzee to bat your hands away from your own scalp, and gently sink his fingers into your pelt. This is routine by now, so you let him take over. Purely because you don't want him making sad barkbeast eyes at you if you stop him, of course. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the way he gently combs through your hair, delicately trailing fronds over your horns on the way, is one of the most magnificent things you've ever felt.

By the time your moirail dotingly slicks conditioner through your hair, you're purring like a motor, just about ready to melt into a warm puddle of satisfied troll and slip down the drain with the sudsy water. You get hold of yourself enough to chivvy him under the spray and return the favor.

You discovered early on that shampoo turns Gamzee's hair into an unmanageable daymare, but you can slather it in conditioner and finger comb it into submission. You're proud of the fact that he hasn't had any really bad mats in perigees, thanks in part to your diligence. These days it's not unusual to see him twisting a curl around his claws with a silly grin on his unspeakably dear face. He's started taking better care of himself without prompting from you as well, and you think it's slowly sinking into his thinksponge that he's actually kind of attractive when he doesn't look like he's been dragged backward through a hedge in a hurricane. It makes you want to puff your chest out and strut, you're so proud of him.

“You clean up well,” You tell him. He grins like a pleased wiggler.

“Well, you've worked hard to put a diamond shine on me, best friend,” He says, and you maybe nudge a horn into his sternum, because it's embarrassing when he says that sort of shit.

You hope he never stops.

When the water cools, you abscond from the ablution block cocooned in fluffy absorption planes, this time to the pile in the rumpus block. Yes, the one with the honk horns. They should prevent you from dozing off, which is good, because you can't gloss over what happened today with a few snuggles. You need to jam about it.

You settle yourself in the pile, and open your arms to your moirail. He settles himself gingerly across your lap, and you bundle him up as best you can in your damnably short arms, before he can start to worry that he's crushing you. Fresh from the shower, his skin feels almost as warm as yours. It makes you want to purr, but it's time to use your noise chords for other things.

“So about... what happened earlier...” You begin, and lose momentum.

“Nothing but a misunderstanding, best beloved.” Gamzee's quick to make excuses for you, even when you don't deserve it.

“Yeah, but I shouldn't have flipped my shit like I did, I should have known better. I _did_ know better, really. And even if Jane had been getting conciliatory with you...”

“She wasn't, or at least not more than most of the humans do all the motherfucking time.”

“Yeah. But even if the two of you _had_ been pale flirting, I feel like I'm the last troll on this shiny new planet with a right to get jealous.”

“Brother, you have every right. What's your meaning?” Gamzee says, and you have trouble looking him in the eyes.

“It's just, you know how I get. I care about all of my friends so fucking much. Maybe more than I should. And I can't keep my opinions inside my noise trap, and maybe slopping pusher-felt concern all over the place constantly is a bit... sordid. For a troll who has their pale quadrant filled already.” Gamzee won't let you avoid his gaze for long. He cups a hand to your cheek so you can't look away, and you find that you don't _want_ to look away, because his expression isn't anything like the disappointment you feared.

“Karkat, I don't think 'sordid' is the motherfucking word. I think it's beautiful how you get your care on at the whole entire world. Maybe the most genuine sort of miracle this troll ever laid ganderbulb at.” He says, looking fond.

“You can't be serious.”

“Serious as a motherfucking embolism.”

“I don't understand how you can possibly feel that way.”

“It's like this, best friend: For as long as I've known you, you've been picking up stray trolls. Cullbait, and I include my own self in that category. All sorts of ragtaggedy misfits who wouldn't claide together, not in a million sweeps, but you went and made a motherfucking friendship mosaic out from the lot of us. You're the cement holding everything together.” Gamzee explains.

“Without you, I wouldn't ever have met some of the other motherfuckers I call friends, and maybe that wouldn't be much loss for them, but I am _so grateful_. You don't know how grateful I am for that. So I have you to thank for all that, and your good fucking sense to keep a brother in line, but on top of that you come hive to me every day. We snuggle up in our recuperacoon, and the first thing I get my look on every evening is your precious face, and you look at my visage all sleep-ugly and unpainted and somehow don't run screaming off for the hills.”

You want to tell him that his just-woke-up face, slime covered and squinting eyes, is just about the most piteous sight you've ever seen, and you're the one who looks like a cholorbear's unwashed ass first thing in the evening, but he _keeps going_.

“You've got all sorts of feels for all sorts of folks, but you come hive to _me_ , you lay those hot fronds of yours on _this_ scarred up face, and some days I don't even have pan-matter to contemplate how motherfucking lucky I am.”

There's basically no way for you to not kiss him after all that, so you don't even try. You take his ridiculous, sweet face in your hands and kiss his brow, the round bulb of his nose, and finally his mouth. He makes a startled 'mmph!' sound, but no protest, starts giggling because your mouth landed more on his oversized fangs than his lips, and it feels funny.

This is a misstep you're both well used to navigating, and after a moment you sort yourselves out so that your lips meet properly; dry, and plush, and warm. It's a simple delight, kissing your moirail, strangely luxurious because you could do it for hours without tiring, an enjoyment that doesn't peak or end, a moment that stretches out as sweetly as pulled taffy.

After a while, you find yourself content to gently rest your lips against his, no real pressure, mouths slightly parted to exchange breath. It's... almost spiritual, really. Like you and he are parts of the same organism. You feel so light, you're dizzy with it. Surely Gamzee's weight sprawled over you is the only thing preventing you from floating away.

Then something shifts in the pile, to a chorus of honks. You flinch, startled by the sudden sound. Gamzee looks at you with wide eyes, and before you know it you're both laughing. Your moirail flops over so that you're side by side, and you stretch, breathing deeply. You feel invigorated.

“Bro... To be honest with you, I feel kind of bad, you getting your apology on the way you did,” Gamzee says, then pauses to gnaw on his lower lip the way he does when he's nervous.

“Oh?” You prompt.

“Well... The motherfucking truth is that, much as I didn't like seeing you all upsettled of yourself, or seeing Jane to get her feathers ruffled, I didn't mind on behalf my own hearing you make those jealous sounds.”

You contemplate this, while the tips of your moirail's ears blush a fetching lilac. You want to make sure you understand this correctly.

“So, you're saying that other than me and the Jane human being upset, you _liked_ me acting jealous.”

“Yeah, you got your understand on there, best friend.” He says, and by this point you're 100% certain that he's embarrassed about this. Most of the time you think he doesn't even know _how_ to be embarrassed.

“ _Why?_ ”

“This is maybe gonna sound dumb, but it just gives me the warmest feeling all up in my pusher to see you ready to fight to keep hold at me. Like I'm some kind of special.”

“Special is the least of what you are, you incredible bullshit clown. So me being a big, selfish grub made you feel, what, valued?” You ask. Something about this upsets you. Does he _not_ feel valued, the rest of the time?

“Yeah, but like, don't take it like you've been neglecting me or nothing. A troll couldn't ask for a better moirail than you, Karkat. It's just...” And here he trails of, biting his lip again.

“Just what? You've got me on tenterhooks here.”

“I don't... Sometimes I think, like, I don't know what I'm bringing to the table here, best friend!” The words tear out of him, and you automatically raise a hand to pap, but he shakes his head, damp curls misting you with water, so you clench your hands together and prepare to listen. Whatever this is, it seems like it needs to emerge in its raw state before you can tame it down.

“Well, for one thing, you brought breakfast to the literal table this evening, and it's all thanks to you I don't have to subsist on my own barely-charred-into-digestibility cuisine. But, go on.”

“That part's easy, though. If a little thing like a hive-cooked meal can make my best friend smile, then that's about the easiest bargain I ever made. And we both got the knowledge I'm not the tidiest motherfucker, so I do what I can to roll out the welcome mat when you come hive after a day of busting your bellows trying to get stubborn motherfuckers to listen at you.”

“Not that I don't appreciate being spoiled shamelessly, but you don't have to do that every day. You know that, right?” You ask him, and aren't reassured as he clacks his claws together in an anxious little rhythm.

“The way I figure, that's the least I can do. Since...”

“Since...?”

“Well, since when we first got in diamonds together, it was different than it is now.”

You still have no idea what he's getting at, and he must see as much from your expression, because he hurries to explain.

“Like, with things the way they were then, shit hitting the whirling device, and me getting all fucked up murderous in my pan, wasn't it... kind of like one of your quadrant novels?”

You wish you didn't know what your moirail was talking about, but it was, in fact, exactly like any number of scenes out of books from your collection. A staple of pale porn. Highblood In Culling Rage Soothed By Lowblood In a Display of Serendipitous Pity and Trust, etc. The start of your moirallegiance with Gamzee could have been lifted straight from the pages of Troll TV Tropes.

“Not like everything was starshine and rosebuds back then, just about the opposite, but sometimes I get to wondering if it was more romantic. And, well, I know how much my main motherfucker loves romance.”

He's not wrong. Worse, there was a time when you loved romantic cliches more than you loved him, and you know that he knows it. You just never suspected that he felt insecure about it, although why wouldn't he?

“I know you weren't pale for me before the game. Pretty much jumped on your every last nerve annoying you so bad, but you were kind enough to keep talking at me.”

That's hard to hear. It's tempting to rewrite history, imagine some romantic undercurrent to Gamzee's and your relationship that didn't exist all those sweeps ago. At least, not on your part.

“Don't frown like that, motherfucker, it's all water under the suspended transverse now. This is just facts what already happened.”

“I hate what a complete shitheel I was.”

“Ssshh, none of that harsh talk about my best friend. Point I'm sneaking up on like the stealthiest fucking ninja is that...”

“...” You keep your trap shut even as the silence drags out tortuously. Gamzee will wander to his point eventually.

“Like... I know you feel harsh at yourself a lot of the time? And, like, maybe papping me out of a rage when I was set to up and murder every last troll on that rock made you feel good and motherfucking useful? 'Everybody has an important job to do' and all that noise... Like the hero from one of your books.”

You suddenly want to track down your past self and beat his stupid face in with one of those same books.

“And I'm not saying things were perfect, fuck no, but I could understand, like, what the attraction was for you? A crazy highblood who needed his tits calmed in the worst motherfucking way. And when I stopped raging, our diamond just sort of faded out. I know that was mostly me fucking up and fucking off to do all that bullshit I did, but brother, I could swear you were relieved. I wouldn't blame you if you were.”

Your eyes are wet, and you refuse to blink, furiously willing them to dry.

“You didn't like me when I was a wriggler, all ignorant and harmless. You didn't like me much after you calmed my tits on the meteor, either. So I guess I don't understand what's different now. Things are so good with us, Karkat, better than I ever got my dream on they would be. But how can I keep this thing good if I don't even know what I'm doing, or being, that's making it motherfucking work? Or what if I'm wrong and it's not really working at all? What if I'm thinking all fucked up again? It sure as shit wouldn't be the first time.”

Each _you didn't like me_ stabs into your pusher like a blade, though there's nothing sharp or accusatory in the way your moirail says them. Just a plain statement of obvious facts, with a hint of wistfulness, like maybe it would have been nice if things had been different. If you hadn't spent the first sweep that you knew him making sure he was aware what a disgusting waste of oxygen you thought he was. If a cursed fucking object hadn't latched onto him and stuck it's cottony nubs in his sponge for the next sweep and a half. You know, little things like that.

“Karkat?”

Little fucking details like not being tenderly skullfucked by a multiversal time-traveling abomination, and oh also maybe having a moirail who could be bothered to look past their own hideous insecurities long enough to give him the fucking time of night. Like–

Pap. Fronds on your face. Gamzee's thumb wipes at your gross, pink tears as they trickle alongside the bridge of your nose.

“Sorry. Sorry, Karkat. I didn't mean to– I shouldn't have said... Sorry,” Gamzee apologizes, voice tiny and miserable. You feel like your pusher might literally be breaking.

You need to get a grip on yourself, because if you let him leave this feelings jam thinking that he's done something wrong, he may never be honest with you about this shit again.

You wrap your arms around him, feel the split second of hesitation before he eases into the hug. Pet the nape of his neck, gently run your claws through the soft and springy curls of his hair. It's relaxing, for both of you. That's good, you can't afford to fly off the handle now that it's been made clear just how poorly you've communicated your feelings and intentions to your moirail. The time for self-indulgent flailing is over.

“Gamzee, I know that shit was hard for you to say. I'm sorry I freaked out. You didn't do anything wrong.” You bite back words of self-recrimination, because they won't help. They'll just make your moirail leap to defend you, when it's _his_ feelings you need to focus on right now.

“My past self... I took a lot of things for granted. I thought that relationships had to follow a certain formula, and anything that deviated from that had to be pushed back into shape, and if it couldn't be pushed it was worthless. I spent more time worrying about the shape of things, how they looked, than I worried about the people that were most important to me. And because of that, I fucked up. A lot.”

Gamzee looks at you in rapt attention, and you rub his arms where your hands still lay, like he's just come in from the cold and needs warming up, even as your gaze slips off to the side, cowardly.

“And I did... like you. I did a terrible job of showing it, and I couldn't even admit it to myself, but I really liked you. I didn't appreciate how much until you started acting weird and vanishing, and even then I couldn't just tell you that I missed you. That I missed you being around, that I missed the goofy troll you used to be, who was completely hopeless but cared about his friends more than anything. I don't know if saying any of that to you on the meteor would have made a difference, but I regret not saying it anyway.”

Your moirail's cheeks have gone lavender again, and his eyes are misty.

“Karkat... I don't know if it would have reached me back then, I was so far gone, but... To hear it now. Helps,” Gamzee tells you, before he gives a honking, indelicate sniff in an effort to keep gross crying at bay. It's disgusting, and you love him abominably. As the first actual tears track down his cheeks, your heart throbs in pale sympathy. What a mess of a troll.

You're never letting him go.

“So. You don't need to worry that– that the fucking romance has gone out of our relationship, or whatever. We're on the same page, this is the best that we've ever been. I love sharing a hive with you, having you here with me. I'm actually kind of a selfish asshole like that.”

“If you wanting me around is selfish, feel free to keep on being selfish, brother,” Gamzee says, voice wavering just a little.

“Thanks, I will. I may get so fat from your cooking that you have to roll me to meetings like a giant beach recreation sphere, and so smug that I'll have to wear a paper bag over my head to prevent digestive upset in any unfortunate asshole who looks at my nauseatingly self-satisfied face, but that's what you've signed up for.”

“Zero complaints from this motherfucker,” Your moirail agrees, looking entirely too delighted for someone still wiping away tears.

Relief may be an understatement for what you feel, seeing your moirail grin at you again. You flop back onto the horn pile with an almighty racket, and a deep sigh that feels like poison leaving your body. You didn't fuck everything up. Gamzee and you are going to be OK. It's going to take work, but you're going to be OK.

“Come here,” You tell him, and he wriggles down in the pile until he's laying diagonal to you, his head propped on your ventral plate, as content as a barkbeast with a chin on its owner's knee. It's an apt comparison, because you can't resist petting him a little, burying your fronds in his damp curls and rubbing thumbs over his cheeks until his thunderous purring overpowers the distracting squeals of the horns you're cradled in.

“We're going to be OK,” You tell him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And maybe your moirail will believe just about anything, but seeing the trust in his eyes now, you know that you won't let him down. You refuse to let that happen.

You're going to keep him.

 

Be Gamzee ==>

It's been a full motherfucking carnival ride of a day, all ups and downs, shaking legs and your pusher in your mouth. Had a bad turn or two where you just wanted to get off, but you and your moirail held tight to one another, and it all turned out right.

You told things at Karkat that you intended to keep locked up behind your fangs, as long as there was breath in your body. Always felt like the sky was going to crack and cave the fuck in if you opened your noise trap on them.

_I don't understand what you see in me, but maybe if I don't ask you won't realize that there's nothing here to love._

_Are you happy here? Because I am, so much I feel like I could die of it. Like I'll die when I have to leave._

_Sometimes you look at me like you never want me out your sight, and I want it to be true so fuckin bad._

Your moirail listened, coaxed the words out when those motherfuckers stuck tight in your choke, and he didn't ever dismiss. Looked at you with grave pity in those scarlet eyes, and set to sweeping you off your feet with resolve to keep hold on you. Just thinking about it sets your pan vibrating with giddy, pale feeling.

You think probably none of it would have happened it it weren't for that misunderstanding. Seems you owe Jane something, least of all an apology for the way she got rushed out your hive, and the worry done to her soft, human pusher.

You're gonna have to do something nice for her.

 

Be Jane ==>

There's a pie waiting for you the next time you enter your kitchen. On the counter just below the window, which is open further than you remember it being. You haven't even left the house at all today, you were just occupied in the laundry room when this surreptitious act of reverse burglary took place.

It's a nice looking pie. Purple juice, probably blackberry, wells up from neat slits in the top crust, just the right viscosity to let you know the whole pastry won't collapse into wet, underdone goo the second you cut a slice out. That narrows down the identity of your unburglar, and the note you find under the pan confirms your suspicions.

JaNe,

SoRrY aBoUt ThE oThEr DaY. KaRkAt ThOuGhT yOu WeRe AcTiN pALe aT mE, AnD pAniCkEd. We'Re BoTh FiNe, No NeEd To FrEt YoUr HoRnLeSs LiTtLe HeAd OvEr iT.

NeXt TiMe We BaKe I'lL TrY tO pUt FeWeR mOtHeRfUcKiNg HoLeS iN mY cHiTiN.

:o)

 


End file.
